have fallen in love with him that night, the night he kissed me, but I think it was earlier than that. When he wrote me a letter at my boarding school in Germany.
When he dived into the water after me.
I’m not sure who I am if I’m not the girl hopelessly in love with Christopher Bardot.
Tonight I’m going to find out.
There’s no listing for the Den online. None for Damon Scott, either. Finally I have to call Avery who has connections in the city. She gives me Penny’s number, but there’s no answer. In the end I have to settle for leaving a message and hoping she gets it in time.
And that she’d even want to help if she knew.
Abdel parks with his headlights angled so I can see what I’m doing. He also orders pizza, which is initiative I appreciate in a man. “I didn’t drive you around the city for two hours so you could get murdered,” he says when I tell him to leave. I’m pretty sure I’m going to send his daughters to college. I’ll be past twenty-five when they need the tuition, finally and forever in charge of that damned trust fund.
By the time Penny arrives, I have the eyes painted, which is no small feat considering I’m using a fifty-dollar ladder that had clearly been used and returned before I bought it. It leans up against metal and glass that’s decades old, shaking with every brusque wind. My canvas isn’t a wall, not really. It’s the entire south side of the building. Mostly windows. Some brick.
The eyes are the most important.
Usually that’s true in a portrait, but it’s a million times more true right now.
This Cleopatra isn’t sexy. Isn’t seductive. Unless it turns you on to be with a woman who wants to destroy everything you’ve worked for, which some perverse men probably do.
She’s angry, this one. Determined. Resolute.
They paint her knowing, usually. As if the world is full of puppets she makes dance. I think she knew what she was doing but couldn’t have known the outcome. It’s an act of sacrifice to throw everything you have toward a cause. Part of you has to be sure you’ll lose to even try.
Like the way I know this painting will be demolished at six a.m. There’s going to be a wrecking ball right through Cleopatra’s face. With every stroke of these cheap brushes and clumpy paint, I know it’s the best work I’ve ever done. Art with more than prettiness or pride. Something more important than power.
There’s survival, something every woman has had to look in the face.
And sometimes, sometimes we walk into a fight we know we’re going to lose.
There’s a crowd by the time the construction crew shows up. I expect to see Sutton with them, because he’s the one who’s always managed them. It’s Christopher who appears in a suit and sunglasses, looking like he’s already made his mark on the world instead of only beginning. He does not look at all surprised by the crowd that’s assembled around us.
At first it was only Penny who came and Damon who followed her. There were men who came to consult with Damon, and I wondered whether that was a regular thing. Whether people showed up at the Den at all hours to whisper some serious thing and receive a response. Probably. Eventually word got out, and people started coming to watch.
The protest takes on a life of its own.
It has a hashtag before I even think to post on Instagram: #freethelibrary. Local businesses pick up on it, some of them more serious than others.
Because books are worth saving! posts a local coffee shop.
Mention #freethelibrary to get 30% off, posts a vintage clothing store.
Along with a random ad for shoes.
Blinding light glints off dark sunglasses. He might as well be a stranger, this man in a suit. He looks that cold standing in front of me. Nothing like the man who shivered in my arms.
He looks around before speaking, not in any rush to tell me he’s going to destroy this painting. And the library. “Was this a long game?” he asks finally. “You wanted everyone to hate me after the will reading. I think now it’s done.”
“I didn’t twist your arm into buying a historic building, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s not.”
My mouth is dry from exhaustion and dehydration and paint fumes. He kissed me once, when I was high on the stuff. It won’t happen again. “This wasn’t about revenge. No.